Seren didn't frequent bars. The noise, the smell, the emotional disarray—it was all a lot. But when the tavern was the only place with open seating and quiet enough lighting to write in her journal and maybe enjoy a mug of chamomile, she made do.
That is, until he arrived.
Greased hair. Loose tunic. Voice like a lute string strung too tight and twice as whiny. He plopped down across from her with the smugness of someone who had definitely lost a bar fight before but still thought he had "game."
"Hey there, angel," he said, leaning in. "You healing folks always got soft hands, yeah? Bet you're gentle all over."
Seren blinked. Slowly. Then smiled. Kindly. Dangerously.
"And I bet you're just this close to never touching a mug again without crying."
He laughed.
He shouldn't have.
That's how they ended up at the arm-wrestling table. A small crowd gathered. Bets were made. Tankards were raised.
Seren rolled up her sleeves with the solemn air of a battlefield medic preparing to amputate. The man flexed. Preened. Called her "sweetheart."
Big mistake.
"GO!" someone shouted.
They strained, both arms locked in place.
"Y'know," he grunted, "you're kinda cute when you're mad."
Outside the tavern window:
A goose screamed.
Followed by a high-pitched warcry.
Then something fluffy launched past the window riding said goose like a feral cavalry general, pursued by a screaming mage brandishing a sparkly dress like a war standard.
The man flinched.
Seren did not.
SLAM.
His hand hit the table with enough force to rattle teeth three tables over.
The tavern erupted in cheers. Coins changed hands. The man stared at his flattened knuckles, eyes wide, masculinity bruised. Seren simply took a sip of her now-cold tea, entirely unfazed.
She stood, calm and poised. "Next time," she said softly, "just say hello and walk away."
She left him there, clutching his ego like a dislocated shoulder.
Outside, Poffin galloped past on his goose again, screaming, "I AM A GOD AMONG BIRDS!"
Lyra barreled after, hurling the dress like a javelin. "GET BACK HERE YOU FLUFFY MENACE!"
Seren watched them pass, nodded once in solemn understanding, and went back inside.
She could heal wounds. But no one could heal the stupid
Seren did not intend to become the reigning champion of the bar fighting scene in three different towns and one village with suspiciously few windows.
It just sort of… happened.
At first, it was the man with the comments. Then the drunk with the wandering hands. Then the loudmouth who said healers were "just fancy background NPCs with glitter."
After that, the bar fights started finding her.
It became a kind of underground legend.
A mysterious priestess, robed in white, hands folded in prayer—until some idiot opened his mouth, and then boom—divine retribution in the form of a perfectly-executed elbow drop.
She never used magic. That was the rule.
"Lay on Hands" didn't mean punch someone, technically.
But semantics were blurry when your opponent woke up on the tavern floor trying to remember how to count past two.
Tonight, it was a smug mercenary from the Northlands who bragged about slaying a drake with his bare hands.
"Impressive," Seren said, sipping from a clay mug. "I slayed a hangover with willpower and crushed a man's delusions in under ten seconds."
He didn't take the hint.
He challenged her.
And three seconds later, he was beneath the table, mumbling apologies to the gods, his ancestors, and possibly his fourth-grade teacher.
They started calling her "The Silent Sermon."
Because she didn't talk much.
She just corrected people—with fists. Like a divine editor.
Meanwhile, outside the bar, Poffin had founded a biker gang made of stray cats and two very angry raccoons. He called it "The Fluff Hoods." They all wore leaves.
Ash walked past, saw Seren calmly readjusting her gloves while a man crawled away whimpering, nodded, and muttered, "And I'm the dangerous one?"
By the end of the night, the bar gave her a free drink, a trophy carved from a stool leg, and a commemorative plaque with the words:
"Do No Harm (Unless Provoked)"
Seren smiled, bowed politely, and left through the front door.
The door opened for her on its own.
No one dared to admit it didn't even have hinges anymore.